He creates himself with canvases,
each piece a separate face, slipped on
easy as a hat.
easy as a hat.
Hands free baby, swaddled
on his front, his paint brush fingers behind.
Jaws drop in his wake.
Scribbles + Musings
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Dancing in the Bar
At Kaufbar (my work), Friedrichshain, I watch four-wheeled, two-wheeled, two-footed and four-footed life meander by. If someone looked in through the dust-stained hand smudged windows they would see a stripey beenie with an oversized red pompom, bobbing behind flower pots, serviets, sugar buckets and a bell. (The upbeat british band the shins are my friends on this quiet quiet day.) This is me, and today life is a performance.
Sadly, the contact with the other players is lacking and when I look out the people going by only seem to be looking forward. They are horseblinded. Even at red lights in their cars they look ahead. Curiosity doesn't seem to penetrate their bubble. Then again, those on bikes seem to slide past the window, fast and free.
Yet here I am, running into chairs and tables as usual (empty chairs and tables *que Les Miserables music*), opening doors with a flick of my leg and burning myself on the coffee machine handle as I let my bare arms rub the branding metal. I will persevere through the bruises and burns because today's aim is to practice the espresso - which doesn't explain why I am taking comfort in a foamy cap right this moment and sitting down when I should be dancing.
If an 80s boy band side slide makes the grasping of a coffee cup more aerodynamic (or not) I'll do it. If a Chicago hand click adds some drama to the taking of a coffee order then I'll do it. When I'm alone - usually when I am opening up at 9.30am - I'll break out into hip hop pumps and pops or even worm it on the wooden floor, spring up, extract the cigarette butt off my bust and then spin on the spot like Michael.
Kaufbar is my enclave of dance.
Sadly, the contact with the other players is lacking and when I look out the people going by only seem to be looking forward. They are horseblinded. Even at red lights in their cars they look ahead. Curiosity doesn't seem to penetrate their bubble. Then again, those on bikes seem to slide past the window, fast and free.
Yet here I am, running into chairs and tables as usual (empty chairs and tables *que Les Miserables music*), opening doors with a flick of my leg and burning myself on the coffee machine handle as I let my bare arms rub the branding metal. I will persevere through the bruises and burns because today's aim is to practice the espresso - which doesn't explain why I am taking comfort in a foamy cap right this moment and sitting down when I should be dancing.
If an 80s boy band side slide makes the grasping of a coffee cup more aerodynamic (or not) I'll do it. If a Chicago hand click adds some drama to the taking of a coffee order then I'll do it. When I'm alone - usually when I am opening up at 9.30am - I'll break out into hip hop pumps and pops or even worm it on the wooden floor, spring up, extract the cigarette butt off my bust and then spin on the spot like Michael.
Kaufbar is my enclave of dance.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Silk and Snow
Its snowing outside
and my sarong
from silky south-east
presses against my dry
winter skin
looking like the yellowed walls
of our raucher-WG.
The kettle snores
like a drunkard and
the steam whilts the
silk, melting it
to my thighs and hips.
The sole caress of the season.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Friday, November 26, 2010
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